He went the long way around two lines of slot machines, all the while keeping her in sight. I followed more directly, staying well back. She didn’t target any more guys, but wound through the crowd to the back, where a bank of elevators awaited.
We were at one of the Indian tribe casino’s that populate the Phoenix area. I never could figure out the law that said Native Americans could own gambling establishments, but other races couldn’t. I’m sure there was some kind of reason, but since I don’t gamble, it wasn’t something I stayed up nights worrying about.
Blackhawk had made a friend that managed this particular casino. The guy had become a regular at El Patron, Blackhawk’s night club, and a big fan of Blackhawk’s girl Elena with her big salsa band. The guy was always trying to persuade Elena to come perform at his casino, but she was happy where she was. He and Blackhawk had been engaged in idle conversation over a cocktail, when he mentioned that he felt the casino slots were being cheated. He couldn’t figure out how. Blackhawk said he would look into it, and invited me to tag along while he checked it out. So, here we were, playing quarter slots, with me getting my pocket picked.
The girl was a pro. A very young pro, but a pro. She knew where the cameras were, and she knew too many stops behind unsuspecting men would bring security down on her. I stayed back while Blackhawk followed her onto the elevator. I noted every floor the elevator stopped at. When it came back down, I followed an older couple on. They gave me a harsh look when I pressed the button for each of the previous stops. One of the stops must have been theirs, they didn’t attempt to press another button. They got off at the first stop. Blackhawk was waiting at the second.
“End of the hall,” he said. Without waiting, he turned and started down the hall. I followed. I could have grabbed the girl as soon as she took the wallet, but this is how Blackhawk and I have our fun.
He reached the door, and moved to the side, his back against the wall. Just out of sight of the peep hole. I knocked. After a moment the light in the peep hole darkened. Someone was looking at me. I put on a nice smile and knocked again.
Whoever was looking at me, hesitated. Then I heard voices. I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was inquisitive. The door hesitantly opened. It wasn’t the blondie, but another young girl of about the same age. She had brown hair, and a fading bruise on her cheek bone.
“Yes?” she said.
“Hi there,” I said brightly. “I’m here to pick up my wallet.”
She started to shut the door abruptly, but I had my foot in it. I shoved it open, which shoved her back. I stepped into the room. Blackhawk stepped in behind me. The blond was sitting in a chair, where she had been looking through my wallet, but it was the woman on the couch that had both mine, and Blackhawk’s attention.
The woman was tall and slender, wearing tight jeans, and an embroidered blouse. She sat casually, her legs crossed with a tooled boot on each foot. Her hair was blond, but not as white blond as blondie. Fashionable streaks highlighted her hair in an expensive looking way. She held a throw pillow on her lap. Her left arm lounged across the top of the couch, the right hand under the pillow.
She began to laugh. “Well, look what the cat drug in,” she said.
“They called her Indigo,” Blackhawk said in his best deep, movie trailer voice.
“Let me guess,” I said. “9mm Beretta?”
She laughed again, taking her right hand from under the pillow. In it was a 9mm Beretta. “Good memory.”
Blondie was looking from us to her, “You guys know each other?”
“Long, long ago, in a land far, far away,” I said.
“You still go by Indigo?” Blackhawk said.
She placed the pistol on the lamp table beside her. “I told these girls my name is Jane.”
“Jane isn’t your real name?” the brown-haired girl said.
“Neither is Indigo,” Indigo said.
This was when I realized that Blackhawk and I knew this woman better than the two girls she shared the suite with.
She stood and moved to a desk that had been set up as a bar.
“What are you boys drinking?” she said. She looked at me, “I don’t have Boodles, just Tanqueray,” she said.
“Good memory,” I said.
“Tanqueray and tonic,” Blackhawk said.
“Make it two,” I said.
“Make it three,” Blondie said.
“Make it four,” the other girl said.
“You girls old enough to drink?” I said.
“Fuck you, Jack,” Blondie said.
“Not Jack. Jackson,” Indigo said as she fixed the drinks. “His name is Jackson. The tall, dark, handsome one is Blackhawk.”
The brown-haired girl snorted. “Blackhawk?”
“His real name is Fred,” I said. “Fred Littlewanger.”
Indigo handed us all a drink. “You two are still on the comedy circuit, I see,” she said. She looked at the girls, “There isn’t any little wanger to it. Take my word for it.”
My eyebrows went up. “Oh, really?”
“We shared a latrine a long time ago,” Blackhawk said. He raised his glass to the two girls, “Blackhawk will do. At your service.”
“So, what are you now?” I asked Indigo. “Let me guess, you are Fagan and this is your merry band of Artful Dodgers.”
“First of all,” she indicated Blondie with her glass, “this is Simone, and this,” she indicated the other girl, “is Nikki. I’m just trying to help them out of a little jam.”
“What kind of jam,” I asked.
Blondie Simone took a drink, and looking at it, made a face. “We have a bunch of people that are looking for us.”
“They’re going to kill us for sure,” Nikki said.
“A bunch?” I said, looking at Indigo. “What constitutes a bunch?”
“By definition, more than twelve,” Blackhawk said.
“A bunch,” Indigo said. She wasn’t joking.
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The Bag Lady, the Boat Bum and the West Side King Page 21
